


The Sound of Fists

by femaletodd



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: AU, M/M, also! A VILLAIN!, and Bruce is one of the casual audience members, and sparks fly!, inspired by BVS, wherein Jason is a brawler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femaletodd/pseuds/femaletodd
Summary: He was resentful of this awakening. He was resentful of having to face the immobility, the impotence of his state.He was an object and he abhorred it.He loathed Bruce Wayne for making him aware of it, once again. Making him recognize that slimy, spidery web that had knotted itself around his arms, around his thighs, around his neck.But he was thankful too.





	1. kills me, burns me, reawakens me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It dried up his tongue and left him fascinated.
> 
> Despite himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can't view the image at the beginning of chapter one, check it out on the link here: http://femaletodd.tumblr.com/post/159434822940/the-sound-of-fists-by-femaletodd  
> Also, i appreciate kudos and reviews as I'm writing (as they encourage me and inspire me too) so if you have something you want to share, please say so. i don't bite, i promise :)

_Bruce_

 

He had often visited the underground establishment called Gold Rust. It hosted brawls between the latest scrappy fighters who were in need of fast cash. Some of the onlookers sat on elevated benches on the sidelines. Some preferred to be close to the action so they liked to circle the two men, watching the savage play of fists and heads. They _all_ liked to relish the adrenaline, the dance of blood and the thud of two bodies colliding. 

No-one ever blinked twice at seeing Bruce Wayne-- CEO of multibillionaire corporation, Wayne Incorporation-- here. It was typical for men like him to come here. Men who were filthy rich businessman with some time on their hand and a gambling hobby they couldn't shake to pass time and make connections. 

Bruce wasn't here to pass time or make connections though. The only reason he came here was to gather intel. He could disguise himself as Matches Malones or someone else but he didn't need to for now. 

Today, he had decided to stand right in the inner circle of what they called the ring. Two men had been at it awhile in the center. Their contrast-colored bare, muscled limbs wrapped around each other. Pushing and shoving, they grunted and panted out fast, heavy breaths. Their spread apart feet slipped as they both struggled for ground. 

He wasn't even paying attention to the fight because he listened with a keen ear to the story Mr. Doberman seemed to be relaying to his friend. They stood, heads bowed, in Bruce’s peripheral.

Not exactly subtle, those two.

"I told the man to take what I was giving, but he was adamant." Mr. Doberman said with a sniff. "I tell you, these slimy rats don't know their place."

His friend gave a hearty laugh.

Vague conversations like these would seem trivial to an ordinary person. Yet Bruce had learned to catch a story in the subtle words, in the whiff of lie and truth mixed together. He had learned about potential black market artifacts being sold nearby and about the circling cons happening right beneath the soil of this establishment.

Because it wasn't like Gold Rust was only a place of betting on fights and watching them. It was a nest where illegal contractors, drug dealers and human traffickers lurked. 

Bruce’s utter focus on intel-gathering broke in two when a body was hurled right into his chest. Nothing to prepare him for the new weight suddenly launched into his arms. Just a small flash of tawny beige skin, bulky pecs, sweaty and tousled black locks before the fighter's mass was leaning heavily against him.

Bruce stumbled back a step, bracing a hand around the man's forearm as he backed another step. The first noticeable thing about the man in his arms was the heat. It poured off of the fighter’s body like steam. Like smoke. 

“Careful there,” He advised the fighter's head that was still bowed over. He himself was unshaken, of course but he wasn't sure about the brawler. Although before he could deign to ask about the man's welfare, two angry slate-blue eyes pierced right into his skull.

Bruce blinked, stupefied for an unnameable reason by the heat in the boy’s glare and it could only be a boy. He seemed so young-- too young-- from his face to his aggravated, reckless body language that seemed to vibrate right before his eyes.

Fire seemed to spew straight out of the breaths that were heaving out of the boy. Trembling breaths that wafted up over Bruce’s jaw and consumed the logic living peacefully in his brain.

The fighter blinked before shouldering away Bruce’s hand on him, whirling around. Bruce swallowed back his unease, his gaze lingering on the back of the fighter. Sinews and cords of muscles around his bronze back flexed and tightened as he faced his foe. His foe, whose triumph marked the jeering curve of his lips.

Delivered in the tilt of the bald, pale-skinned, tattooed opponent was a challenge.

Then, in an instant, the black-haired boy was charging forward right into his enemy’s space. He tackled his opponent with vigor until they both landed on the ground. Grunts issued forth from both as they rolled on the floor for a while, fighting on who was going to be on top. It seemed like the tattooed one was winning but the angry boy gave an animalistic roar and pushed from below. He pushed and pushed and pushed with the cords standing stark against his bronze, muscled arms. His forehead pulsed with the strain. His mouth pulled down.

And in the blink of an eye, he was on top.

He straddled the other fighter, pulled his fist back and let it fall in a whirlwind of punches.

“Ah!” cried out his enemy, blood spurting out of his mouth. His head struck the earth with a painful thud and he lay back, a victim to the angry boy’s barrage of fury. A barrage that seemed never-ending, at least, to Bruce.

“Ah! St- Stop! I give-- I give up.” gurgled the man beneath the boy.

The boy brought his fist down again, a twisted frown molding his face. It seemed there would be no reprieve for his enemy until the fighter was dead so Bruce found himself stepping forward. Before another fist landed, he grabbed the angry fighter’s wrist and held it there. It may look easy to anyone watching but the boy knew it wasn't.

“You’ve won,” He said to the boy, gaze hard, voice soft but stern. “He’s given up.”

The boy’s hate-filled gaze met his calm, unmoved one. They stared at each other for a second before the boy stood, wrenching Bruce’s hand off with force.

He gave Bruce a sneer and turned to head toward the crush of people surrounding them. One-by-one, the audience gave way for the boy to leave. As they parted, the owner of Gold Rust appeared right on the outer edges of the crowd. He was a pale, old man-- gray hairs curling on the top of his head-- with a slouchy, pudgy body. He patted the boy’s shoulder, commending him on his win for all to hear. But then, he pulled the boy closer and whispered something else in the boy’s ear. The boy's back was to Bruce so he couldn't see the response. But those tightened shoulders of his pulled down. The owner patted the angry fighter once more and let the boy leave. 

The owner then eyed Bruce watching the two of them and smiled. Bruce nodded at him in greeting and to his surprise, Grant strolled up to him.

“Robert,” said Bruce, his hand twitching at his side. There was a warmth in the surface of his skin. A fire that neither flickered nor raced but remained steady. That’s what he felt when he had grabbed the boy. 

Something strange. Something... wrong.

“Mr. Wayne,” said Robert with his hands buried in his pocket. “I appreciate you stopping Jason. That boy gets a little too fired up when he’s fighting. Can’t think beyond the rush of blood in his ears.” He glanced at Bruce and gave a pitying smile. “I’m sure you don’t know what that’s like but that kind-of thing-- it makes a person forget.” 

Bruce let his lips curve into a smile but his eyes glittered steel. “That’s a little presumptuous of you, don’t you think? I’ve been in a fair share of brawls myself.” And then, some.

 Robert shrugged. “Yes, but Jason’s different. He’s…” Robert paused, trying to come up with a fitting description. “Well, he’s very willful and more instinctual than anything else.”

 Bruce studied the older man with narrow eyes and asked: “How did you come upon this boy-- this Jason?”

The owner of Gold Rust gave him a puzzled look that was too fake for Bruce to trust.

“The same way I get my other fighters. They come looking for me because they want fast cash and I direct them here, only if they dare, of course.”

Bruce was skeptical about that. The boy had an unhinged quality to him when he’d been attacking his enemy. Hell, the boy had an unhinged quality in general. There had been no thought in his mind, no rule to follow, no requiring of applause at the end of his win.

Deep within the sneers and the blood-ridden fists, there had been fury and resentment.

He hadn’t been performing for the crowd.

And he had wanted to kill his enemy. That much Bruce could tell with one look.

 _Whatever you say._ He thought internally at Robert as he nodded and inquired: “And he’s a regular here?”

Robert looked behind him for a moment. “Yes,” The older man replied, his attention flickering. “Would you excuse me?”

“Of course,” Bruce let the owner leave. He found his eyes landing on the closed door the boy had taken to retire from the hall. Despite himself, he stared.

 He stepped forward but paused.

 _No. This is none of your business._ He wasn't here for the boy.

He shook off the instinct, turning around so he could take the exit out of this establishment. The show was over, he was conspicuous now and he had misplaced intel somewhere in the crowd.

He’d come here another day. Not tonight. Too much in his head. And the heat in his hand refused to leave.

* * *

 

A month later found Bruce once again on the inner edges of the circle that surrounded two fighters. One of them was Jason. Not by any coincidence. Bruce had planned it that way. The boy had a way of fighting-- it reminded Bruce of himself once upon a time so he'd sought the boy out.

The boy bared his teeth and jumped on top of a much broader man, pulling his arms around a brawny neck. The other man, Brock, snarled and tried to shake the leaner boy off. The boy held on tight though, choking Brock with his grip.

“Ugh! Get off me, you pestering bug,” complained the wide-shouldered man. He reached behind himself with his long arms to catch and pull. His nails dug into the smooth, well-defined clammy mass of skin on Jason's back. Scratching down a white line through the dip of Jason's lats, he lurched back, trying to reverse their position.

Jason scowled and brought his leg between the bigger man’s feet, twisting his enemy's neck with his grip. Brock growled in mere annoyance and with a spurt of strength, he whipped Jason off him. Much like a dog would when it shook its head hard enough. Jason staggered away and smiled sardonically in the face of Brock’s irritation.

There was no hint of fear or rational thinking in that boy’s fiery eyes. It was startling to stare into the face of it. For Bruce, it was more than startling.

It dried up his tongue and left him fascinated.

Despite himself.

Brock and Jason tumbled into a grappling match once again. Gritted teeth and exhaled cries as they shook over the struggle. As Brock got one step up and hit Jason on the side of his face, Bruce’s heartbeat doubled over. Drops of ruby-red blood spluttered out of Jason's mouth and dribbled out on the floor.

With a sloppy grin painted red, Jason came back at Brock with curled fists at his side. Knocking the other fighter a few steps back, he advanced with one straight kick to Brock's gut. But the assault only made Brock lose his footing.

Bruce could tell that Jason would have a hard time dealing with this one.

Jason knew that though, but he didn't hesitate in throwing himself at Brock with a reckless energy burning through him. The bigger man slammed Jason in the stomach and punched him across his face. More blood splattered on the floor with Jason’s spittle.

Brock didn't wait for Jason’s retaliation and grabbed Jason’s neck tightly, elevating him until his feet were off the ground.

Jason struggled around the constriction about his neck, hands going up to force Brock’s grip off of him. His gasps choked off on his tongue, giving out a strange sound that settled somewhere in Bruce’s chest.

A murmur of concerned voices buzzed in the background as the seconds ticked on and Brock’s firm grasp on Jason’s neck refused to budge. Jason was turning purplish in color but it must be the dim lighting.

Jason's arms twitched at his side. His feet gave a feeble kick at thin air.

And once again, Bruce was walking into the center of the ring. But for whatever reason, this time, he didn't just grab Brock and tell him calmly to stop.

_What is it with these bloodthirsty fighters anyway? Don't they know the code of conduct around here? Or is it just so very easily forgotten?_

He rested a hand on Brock's sturdy shoulder and as Brock turned to appraise him, he let his fist fly.

The broad-chested man stumbled away, releasing his crushing grip on Jason, who went down on two knees and panted out heavy, shaky breaths.

“What the fuck?” Brock sputtered out, indignant. He rose off the floor once again and as Bruce turned, it seemed like the bullish oaf would try to attack him. The deepmost part of Bruce loved the idea of kicking the bulky man's ass but--

“Now, now,” interjected Robert Grant just in time. He stepped between Bruce and Brock, his arms raised up in a placating gesture.

 “The fight is over, Brock. You win. Now, move along, please.”

A moment passed. Brock read the warning in Robert’s face and found it in himself to restrain his lust for blood. His head bent slightly as he nodded to the ground and without another mutinous look to Bruce or Jason, he turned around and left.

“I hope you aren't going to make this a habit of yours,” Robert told Bruce once Brock was gone.

Bruce glanced over to Jason, who was kneeling on the ground still. With one hand hovering over his bruised throat, his gaze lifted to meet Bruce’s. His stare was an unblinking one. An intense one, sanguineous at the white edges and too dark at the center.

Bruce turned his attention back to Robert. “I wouldn't make this habit if your fighters weren't so eager about killing in the ring.”

Robert shook his head, scoffing. “Brock wouldn't have killed Jason and neither would have Jason killed Jackson that other night. They would've stopped at the last moment. I assure you none of my fighters actually die after these brawls.”

 “I'm not very assured,” Bruce said in a low voice.

 Robert gave him a grimace, displeased by Bruce’s skepticism no doubt. “Well, I can't help that.”

“No,” Bruce said, attention once again diverted toward Jason, who was starting to stand. And just in time, too. Bruce decided he was done with Robert Grant. “You can't,” were his parting words to the owner before he was walking away.

His steps carried him over to Jason, who was still staring at Bruce but this time, with some wariness narrowing his eyes. 

“Come with me,” He told Jason. Before the boy could respond, he grabbed Jason’s hand and pulled him in the exit’s direction.

“Mr. Wayne!” called Robert from a distance but by then, he was just a small voice in a room filled with a cacophony of other, louder voices.

 Bruce pulled the door open and led the boy outside into the night chill. A semi-empty street stretched out before them. Lights glowed from street-lamps and traffic lights and cars whirring nearby.

 “Jesus!” cried out the boy, taking his hand back from Bruce’s hold. He looked at Bruce with a slightly puzzled, slightly enraged face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asked quite politely.

 “How old are you?” Bruce asked the question that had been running around his head for a long time.

Jason stopped, studied Bruce’s profile from head to toe before giving a wry snort. He shook his head. “Is that it?” He asked almost rhetorically, traces of dark humor dancing across his eyes. “Bob there was making a big deal about you taking interest in me. Told me I had to treat you with respect and shit. Dress nice and all but I told him to his face that I didn't think you were worth shit so I wouldn't even try.

“But you're not into me, are ya?" The boy stated, looking entirely too entertained. "You're just interested 'cuz you think I'm some minor and you wanna do your moral duty of setting me right or whatever.”

“Do you--” Bruce questioned, brows crinkling in confusion. “--need me to do my moral duty? Even though that was not my intention here. Right now.”

 Jason released a small chuckle, amusement marking his features. “I'm twenty two. So, no. I don’t need your help.”

 Bruce turned to squint at him. “You're young. That can't be denied. Most fighters out there are seasoned. Older. More trained.”

 Jason gave out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, well, I'm one of a kind. Whatever.” His gaze fluttered up to Bruce’s face. “What about you?”

 “What about me?”

“Why're you here?” He gestured at the signpost of Gold Rust. He folded his arms in a confrontational manner and interrogated: “It's not your type of place, I bet, but here you are. Why?”

How to explain it to this simple, simple boy who only followed the thudding of his heart? He couldn't explain it even if he'd want to.

And he found he wanted to. Wanted to listen and talk to this enigmatic boy who lighted up a room with his presence. He burned red-hot fire, aflame in all his half-naked, burnished glory and Bruce was the charcoal, grey metal that just wanted to be dissolved by it.

With every breath.

With every fibre of his being.

But he hadn't come here to be lured away by the slight hint of flames in the distance.

 “Came for networking,” he replied in a clipped tone, brooking no further discussion on the personal topic. “Stayed for the show.”

“Huh,” Jason stared and then, stopped himself. Looking away in a far too casual move, he grazed his nose with a finger. “So Bob was right? You liked my moves?”

“You don't have moves to begin with, Jason.” Bruce rumbled, feeling a deep well of warmth transforming his tone despite himself. “You're mostly spitting fury and flying punches.”

“Yeah, that about covers it,” Jason said, eyes going up to the night sky where they lingered in a melancholic way. “But you liked that, didn't ya?”

Jason was fishing with that question. That much was at least plain. Bruce surveyed him standing there, damp and naked except for the shorts that rode low on his hips. Right in front of him, there sizzled the coaxing crook of a chestnut neck, dotted with perspiration. Calling to him. Jason's gaze dipped the longer Bruce stared. A quick grin lighted the boy's scraped-up lips as Bruce leaned down and whispered in his ear:

 “So what if I did?”

Jason turned his head, angling it close to Bruce's. So close that their noses brushed. A kindling river dowsed the both of them where they stood.

Jason sucked in a breath and blew it out, all over Bruce's jawbone. “I haven't changed my mind, you know." He said with a lax shoulder jutting upward. His eyes were alight with playful teasing. "I still don't think you're worth it.”

_And what a lie that is._

Bruce let his lips pull up in an amused smile. “Okay,”

 Jason’s regard wavered and his eyes wobbled their way downward. Down and down until they traced Bruce’s neck with some manner of attentiveness.

 “You're pretty strong under that stiff cotton shirt and that fancy ass suit jacket.” Jason commented grudgingly, licking his lips, gaze going back to Bruce’s.

Bruce shrugged. “I suppose I might be a seasoned fighter myself,”

 “Uh-huh,” Jason said, non-committal. He dipped an intent gaze below the lapels of Bruce’s jacket and stared.

 “What are you thinking?” Bruce couldn't help the question from escaping his lips though he knew full well what Jason must be thinking.

The younger man paused, swiftly changed track and as their gazes connected once more, he grasped either side of Bruce’s face with his calloused hands that were bound around by dirty, blood-soaked stripes of cotton.

But Bruce wasn't paying attention to the hands cupping his cheeks. No, he was looking straight into the molten cavern in the center of Jason's blue eyes. The look in his eyes changed so suddenly, Bruce couldn't grasp the milli-second change, but then he couldn't grasp much of anything because he was being swept into a tidal kiss. He smelled a weird mixture of cedar, sweat and dirt around him, with Jason so close, so deeply entrenched within him. His tongue tasted something sharp and bitter like coffee and vinegar mixed together, but he was pretty sure it was just blood. Aside from that, there was the salt on the tip of Jason's bottom lip and he sucked on it, trying to figure out how to keep that flavor forever swirling around his tongue.

The idea of reciprocating was not even a yes-or-no question that stuck around in his mind for long. He was moving before his brain could raise protest in the form: _You have a duty, an obligation, Bruce._ The tang of something wrong was still at the back of his tongue and at the back of Jason's, but he was aware that it wasn't about the both of them. His limbs and lips and tongue sprung automatically to life, following Jason right into the rabbit-hole with his arms gathering around Jason’s waist and Jason’s fingers resting ghost-like on the nape of Bruce’s neck.

Drawing closer, moaning quietly into each other's mouth, they kissed. Slipping hands all over each other, gripping at clothes and naked skin harder, they kissed. Half-alight, with fingers shaking and pulse tripping madly underneath their necks, they kissed. Jason latched onto his shoulders and he latched onto Jason's hips where the shorts were coming precariously close to sliding down. It was so warm and firm and soft here with Jason. Like he was the fume, emitting smoke, emitting warning signals to smoke-detectors on ceilings. They sunk into each on another level, with only their mouths.

Pulling away, they lowered their gaze, and Bruce felt heated air spill out all over his neck and chin. 

Their eyes met and they paused a moment to rethink the whole thing, but there was no rethinking.

 Not for this.

Jason lunged into him, digging his hands around Bruce’s powerful arms and surging up. Like a blast of windstorm. Except he only exuded heat. Crackling, kindling, blinding heat that tortured Bruce with sharp, pinpoint desire. Their teeth clacked together. His cotton shirt turned sticky with the sweat that pebbled Jason’s chest. A hand wormed its way around his ear and clung there. His bristled chin swiped Jason’s smooth one as he swept the coppery taste out of his mouth.

Jason groaned, tightening his grip around Bruce’s ear.

Bruce captured the sound with the press of their open mouths, exhaling sighs. He went deeper with his tongue and gave his hand permission to wander down Jason's waistband. Square-shaped cheeks pressed into his hands as he bit down on a groan. Jason panted against his mouth, letting a choked off whimper escape his lips and suddenly, this was all going too fast too soon.

With a slight waver shaking his insides, he called up all his self-restraint and extracted his hands from Jason’s rear.

Right about now would be a good time for his insurmountable patience to show up.

As he pulled his hands into fists at his side and before Jason asked him what was wrong, the door to Gold Rust lurched open. Prickling light and unwanted noise crept in. The shadow of a figure stood by the doorway and they halted their ministrations to listen.

 “Jay,” called the shadow, voice male, tone serious. “Boss is calling.”

 Jason hadn't pulled away until then but at hearing those words, he stepped back. A sobering expression rippled through his face.

 “Right,” Jason said, bringing the back of his hand across his mouth and rubbing at it. Which only made it worse. Now, the blood spurting from the broken split on Jason's bottom lip was smeared around his mouth in a terribly telling way. Sensing Bruce's eyes on him, Jason looked up and a flash of panic seemed to go through his eyes before he averted his gaze.

 

“Could you give us a moment, Coop?” He asked Robert’s lackey, who appeared to be at least an acquaintance of Jason. Bruce hadn't bothered to turn and look at this Coop but now, he did.

 It was the fair-haired boy who served Bruce drinks a few times as a waiter for Gold Rust. He looked to be the same age as Jason.

 Bruce found his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Something was amiss here. Some… little detail that he couldn't seem to see through right this moment.

 And how could he? What with Jason's heat still lingering in his arms, like a bright lit candle in the dark.

 It demanded all his attention.

 “Sure,” Coop replied after a long survey of the two of them, a wary look in his eyes.

 “Thank you,” Jason murmured as the door shut behind Coop and they were alone again. Well, as alone as they were before.

For a second, they were still. Their eyes connected, but the spell had been broken by now and Jason shifted on his feet, snaking a hand through his messy hair as he turned away from Bruce.

“So I should probably-- _we_ should probably not do that again.” Jason announced quite abruptly in Bruce’s opinion. Bruce opened his mouth but a hand was held out in front of his face. A warning and a means to ward off any more advances.

 Bruce wanted to point out that the first move had been Jason’s but that was childish and petty at this point.

 “Okay,” Bruce agreed, to Jason’s obvious surprise. “But I think I'm allowed to question why the sudden change of mind?”

 A look passed through Jason’s cloudy blues that transformed his whole face. Into something quite morose and dismal. Jason hesitated. “I’m drawing a line. I should be able to do that, right? Between a client and a-- a--” He blew out a startled laugh, one hand up, grasping at nothing. “--whatever the fuck I am, I guess.”

Morose didn't become this fiery creature who had stolen Bruce’s heart in one look, in one breath, in one collision of their crackling bodies.

“A fighter,” Bruce blurted. When Jason lifted his head to regard him with a thoughtful look, he shrugged with a smile. “You're a fighter through and through.”

A small smile wobbled on Jason’s lips. “Yeah, I guess.”

Then the moment passed and a cynical look was back in his eyes. He looked away and sighed.

“You should go,” he said into the stilted quiet.

“Yeah,” Bruce echoed. “I should go.”

Jason didn't look at him once as Bruce took his leave.

That was fine though. He would come back. For whatever illogical reason, he knew he couldn't stop himself from this attachment. To his angry boy.


	2. draws me, pulls me, holds me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was seventeen, you sick, old fucktard. ”

 

_Jason_

He sat and waited in the hallowed darkness of the room. Feet spread apart, elbows on knees, hands steepled together. He bowed his head and waited while taking one breath after another. Like a meditative technique he never mastered but heard about once.

Deep breaths.

With nothing else to focus on, he looked down at the stripes of cotton tied around his hands. It wasn’t clean by any means. There were stains of soot and blood on it. It was a little frayed at the edges too. He had used it so many times during his brawls, he lost count of it.

The door opened to the gym just when he thought about untangling the dirty cloth from his hands before he met her.

Cooper entered and looked at him with a pitying face.

“Well?” Jason asked, voice morphing to a higher-pitched decibel as he almost stood from his position.

“Good job today, boss says.” Coop mentioned.

“And?” Jason insisted.

Coop looked him in the eye. “Boss is asking for you to meet him. In his office.”

Now, what did Robert Grant want from him? He had done his job! What else did Grant expect from him? Bruce Wayne hadn’t been his responsibility. How the businessman decided to conduct himself was none of his problem. He hadn’t done shit! Why should he take the fall for some middle-aged man taking an interest in him?

Jason scratched his head and took his time fuming about the injustice of it, but then, just like that, the kiss flashed through the back of his eyelids and he felt himself shivering.

It had been a really good kiss.

“Whatever,” He exhaled, getting up from the bench and walking over to his locker. He took out a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans from in there. As Coop leaned against the wall and waited for him, Jason dressed.

He never dressed until he knew what he was going out for. If it was for her, he’d shower, put on cologne and dress in clean, carefully folded clothes.

This was just dumbass Grant who Jason detested though and also, he didn’t want the old geezer to get any ideas.

He grabbed his bag, slung it across his chest and shut his locker once he was dressed.

“Let’s go,” He told Cooper, who nodded and followed him out the gym to Grant’s office which was only a few feet away.

It was a trick. Grant used it to assert his authority. That’s why he did this. Told his messengers to call up Jason so they could discuss matters in his office. In his office, where two security guards stood right outside and all around was Grant’s reign to rule.

The man had no say in how the brawls took place or how the fighters decided to conduct themselves, but apparently, his office gave him that sense of safety.

It wasn’t real.

Any one of these behemoths could decide one day that they didn’t like how Grant ran things. And it would take a minute for them to twist the greedy bastard's neck for shits and giggles. Grant would have no say in it. Neither would his guards.

Yet Grant had built up this tiny, little business from the ground-up alone. He had set the rules and he reaped the benefits by giving entertainment to the wealthy as well as fulfill their deepest desire to be a part of the exciting, violent, adrenaline-induced world of people like Jason. People who never had a choice. People who had to scrape and struggle to survive every day.

The illegal business on the side was the frosting on top of a pretty delicious cake.

The guards-- Mickey and Rory-- nodded their greeting and stepped aside for him to enter Grant's office. Jason was a normal occurrence here. Had been here for four years. Two years ago, he was serving the customers. Now, he was one of the brawlers himself.

The system worked that way.

If you were indebted to Grant, as you grew, you watched the brawlers get off with 30k in a day with a series of wins and you got interested. There was a gym right there too so as you worked yourself up to that tiny, little ambition, they offered training.

Grant had been training Jason for a long while though. Since he was fourteen, actually. So there was vested interest here, from both parties.

Bruce Wayne was interfering with that. With his shiny shoes and his fancy suit to his ten-million-dollar car, he was intruding where he didn't belong.

He was _just_ supposed to be a customer. Was just supposed to stand in the circle where audience belonged and watch the game. He was supposed to pay for the entertainment. He was supposed to place in bets on who would win and who wouldn’t. If he liked even, he was supposed to chose a champion-- a regular fighter he could put all his bets on even when he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t supposed to interfere in the games between two brawlers.

 _He wasn't supposed to cross the line_. 

Brock, especially.

Jason was pretty sure Brock was infuriated that his sadistic habit of strangling his opponents-- until they were on the verge of death-- was disrupted for once.

Who wanted that, right? Who wanted a knight in shining armor in the most depraved of places, right when some unfortunate soul needed a knight in shining armor the most?

This was the place you shut up and just watched the blood dance against the concrete. You weren’t supposed to become a referee and impose your ruling on the brawlers.

That wasn’t how it was supposed to work.

Jason was somehow-- not exactly grateful but-- a little enchanted by the intruder though.

He never met people like Bruce here. He hadn’t expected to meet them either.

But surprise, surprise.

Robert Grant sat behind his desk with a grave sort-of expression on his face. It was ruined by the furrow of agitation that marked his forehead.

“Ah,” He said when he saw Jason enter. “There you are. Good. Good. Take a seat, please.”

Jason was familiar with the politeness that accursed Grant’s speech. It made you feel like he was a nice man with an agenda, but a nice man indeed.

And yet…

“When will I see my mother?” Jason said once he was in the seat across from Grant.

Grant hadn’t been expecting that question right out of the blue. So his eyebrows leapt in surprise and he tried to cover up his displeasure by furrowing his brow in a grave manner.

“Uh-- I’m sorry,” Grant stuttered out. “But that’s not what I called you in here for.”

Jason looked away and rolled his eyes. “Let me guess what you do want to talk about,” He turned his head to glare at Grant. “Bruce Wayne.”

Grant’s right eye twitched at the name. “Yes,” He shifted a few things around his desk and straightened up. “As a matter of fact, yes, I want to talk about him.”

“You really thought he was going to make me his champion, didn’t you?” Jason asked with a chortle.

“Well, there’s no guarantee exactly why he is interested in you but you talked to him.” Grant pressed: “What did you think he wanted with you?”

_Sex._

Jason kept the grin off his face and looked down, pressing his lips together. “I-- I don’t know. He just asked me if I was okay and stuff like that. Nothing worth mentioning.”

Grant stared at him, his eyes squinting. “I see,” Suspicion clouded his tone.

Did Cooper tell him everything? He must have. He owed Jason nothing. They were just distant friends on occasion, if even that.

Jason didn’t feel the need to hide his relationship with Bruce-- and god, to hear him thinking about it, _it wasn’t a relationship at all anyway,_ but he didn’t want Grant interfering.

“So,” Jason said, scratching his ear. “How did Brock take it? I can’t imagine he was happy with you after what happened.”

“I handed him an extra 10k,” replied Grant, voice crisp. “He was very happy after that.”

“Huh,” Well, wasn’t that great for Brock. “How come I didn’t get an extra 10k after Bruce interfered last time?”

“Because--” Grant almost growled the word before stopping himself from continuing that train of thought. Jason quirked a brow and knew immediately what came after that ‘because’.

_Because I own you, you goddamned ungrateful brat._

Grant grimaced, looked away, found his composure and his eyes were back on Jason’s.

“Because you’re the problem,” He pointed out, quite unfairly. “You started him up in the first place. Before seeing you, Mr. Wayne was a great customer of ours. He was quiet. He didn’t start… shit. He enjoyed the view and bought our most expensive wines. He was almost inconspicuous.”

Jason took a moment to compose a reason, some excuse for Mr. Wayne’s unwarranted interest in him and came up blank. He tried anyway: “Maybe, he really just wants me to be his champion and didn’t want Brock to… you know, kill me.”

Grant frowned. “That’d be nice if it were true but we both know Mr. Wayne is interested in what’s underneath your pants than what you offer in the ring.”

So Copper had told him.

Jason leaned back with elbows resting on the arm chair and breathed out an exasperated sigh. “If you knew, I don’t know why you needed to go about it in such a roundabout way. Yes, fine, Bruce wants me. I want him as well. It’s none of your business what we decide to do about it.”

Grant was quiet. Thoughtful. For only a second. Then, he hissed out: “He’s interfering where his nose doesn’t belong.”

And that was the problem. Jason had seen that one coming a mile away.

“What if he doesn’t interfere anymore? Would that make you feel better?” Jason inquired, watching the older man in front of him with a critical eye. When Grant didn’t respond, he said: “Fine, next time I see the guy, I’ll tell him to cut it out.”

Grant blinked and averted his gaze from Jason’s. “There was a time--” He began. “--when I offered you what you are so freely taking him up on.”

Jason had bitter bile in the back of his throat and it decided to present itself to him right then and there. He kept the disgusted frown off his face.

Yes. Robert Grant had tried to offer him three things when they had first met: money, shelter and a “partnership”.

Jason had refused him on the whole thing, point-blank. He had only been a minor but he was defiant enough, clever enough to see that particular gift horse in the mouth. He had been able to see it for the bloody fucking trap it was.

His mother hadn’t.

See, Robert was a collector. He collected things and he collected people. Once they were in his possession though, he dictated how they lived, what they did.

Jason’s mother said yes. So she got rich, lived in a beautiful home, dressed all pretty, ate whatever she liked-- she had her dream. But what that meant was that she had to please her husband, Robert Grant, _all the time_. That meant that when Jason, her son, wanted to meet up with her, she listened when Robert refused. She ignored the fact that Robert’s former four wives had died mysteriously just when those women had started making noise about leaving him.

She ignored that Robert slept around on her. She ignored that he treated her son like an object of his too. She ignored that because of her foolishness, Jason was trapped too.

Just like her.

Sometimes, Jason wanted to hate her. Wanted to hate what she did to him-- to them, but how could he blame her? They had both been hanging onto life from the lapel.

Nothing had worked out for them after Jason’s real father, Willis Todd, was sent to Gotham Corrections to serve ten years. They had been led astray by one deceptive asshole to the next and by the end of it, they were both only just getting by.

Robert Grant showing up when he did had been a blessing in disguise for her mother.

Except Jason had been trying his best on his own for them both. He had stolen, jacked cars, and worked petty jobs. It might have seemed hopeless to her from her semi-comatose position on the floor with another drug working its way into her system, but _Jason had been doing his best._

And he had been free.

Free to run, hide, steal and fight whenever, wherever he wanted.

Now he had no choice in the matter.

He swallowed back a retort that was itching to get out, something like: “ _I was seventeen, you sick, old fucktard._ ”

But he held back and instead, shrugged flippantly before saying: “Bruce’s hot,”

And Grant accepted that. Grudgingly, with bitterness swelling beneath his shifty gaze and nostrils flaring in rage.

Grant allowed a certain level of cheek. He would have to-- to deal with the ruffian crowd he dealt with day-in, day-out. If someone actually got antagonistic to his face though… he drew a line.

Jason could be insolent, defiant and disloyal, but he couldn’t be bluntly disrespectful to Grant’s face.

That would set them back. Jason wouldn’t be able to see his mother for months. And despite everything she had done, his mother was still the most important person in his world. And he’d do anything to see her, to know that she was happy.

So he would play along with the stupid ruse this sharp old man kept up. He would fight and earn money and get stronger, but he wouldn’t get in Grant’s face about it.

That he had promised himself.

He couldn’t help the anger that came from the powerlessness though. It had to get out somehow, right? So he put it all on the next face he had to punch. On the next body he had to tackle to the ground.

He was doing so very well at that that these few months, the days blurred by. They hardly registered in his brain.

Meeting Bruce had been an error. Because it startled him awake. From the moment Bruce had grabbed his wrist and stopped him from letting out his insatiable desire to pummel Robert Grant’s face into the dirt (who was only poor Jackson at the time), Jason was conscious again of what he was, where he was and what he was doing.

He was resentful of this awakening. He was resentful of having to face the immobility, the impotence of his state.

He was an object and he abhorred it.

He _loathed_ Bruce Wayne for making him aware of it, once again. Making him recognize that slimy, spidery web that had knotted itself around his arms, around his thighs, around his neck.

But he was thankful too.

Nobody was like Bruce. Nobody he’d met, anyway. Everyone wanted something from him. Bruce might too but his was a want that Jason shared. It was simple want. A pure one.

He shook off the thought.

“Am I meeting my mother this weekend at least?” Jason asked for the last time.

Grant sighed. “I hate to refuse you like this all the time, Jason, but your mother-- you know how she gets. Just this morning, she was so erratic, she broke a window in our bedroom.” _That’s because you keep giving her hallucinogens instead of simple cocaine like she asks, you stupid fuck._ “I’m afraid if you meet her like that, it’ll just hurt the both of you. You understand, don’t you? I only want to protect you.”

How could he sound so genuine, so authentically real when he said that?

Jason would never be able to understand.

He shoved himself out of the seat with an abruptness that must seem rude, but Jason was out of fucks to give right this instant. He was barely restraining the urge to yell at Robert. For all the good that would do him.

“Thank you for your time,” He announced tersely before he was turning and walking away with a steady haste. If he didn’t, he would do something he would come to regret later.


	3. fascinates me, incites me, changes me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not a puppet of his,” He retorted, stung.

Bruce was back.

To Jason’s utter surprise. Only two weeks after the ‘Brock’ thing.

Jason had thought it would take longer. He recalled the brusque words he had thrown at Bruce’s face, about drawing lines and keeping things professional like it was yesterday, but he genuinely didn’t know what the fuck he had been talking about.

Drawing a line? That should be drawn between him and Robert Grant. A thick, huge wall of a line that separated the two of them from ever interacting. Ever.

Yet, that kept happening despite his wants.

What he wanted from Bruce though had become clear only after the handsome man had left their establishment.

Just two days after the ‘Brock’ thing, he’d gotten so hot and heavy thinking about those heated kisses they’d shared that he’d jerked off right in the locker rooms.

The locker rooms were the last place anyone wanted to jerk off in. Not only was it nasty. There was always the risk of Grant lurking around, checking out everyone’s ass as he made his rounds around the showers, announcing news about the day.

But Bruce was back. He stood once again on the inner edges of the ring, waiting for the match to start and Jason stood by the door, checking him out.

The man was unreal. Under the sharp lines of his suit was a rippling burly chest, bulky calves, and straining biceps. He just knew it. Bruce's face wasn’t so bad-looking either. Jason hadn’t been looking the first time, but this time, he definitely noticed. The aquamarine blues of his eyes hid a story. A story he wanted to get to know.

But they were also, ice. Icy walls that concealed his intentions and his motivations very well. Then, there were his lips. Full. Plump. A bit chapped but Jason’s had been broken and bloody when they had last kissed so who the fuck cared?

Part of the draw, Jason knew, was not in the face or the body. It was in the self-assurance the man wore like a cloak around him. The way he had treated Grant like dirt under his shoe the other day with no hint of fear or conciliation. It had attracted Jason who had to act like a conciliatory moron on most days.

And part of the draw was also... Jason had to admit to himself with reluctance-- because Bruce Wayne genuinely seemed like a Knight in Shining Armor with the capital K.

Jason didn’t need rescuing, of course. No. Fucking. Way. He could take care of himself.

Yet there was something so soothing about the presence of one who felt intrinsically good amongst a group of flawed, corrupt people. Half the people in here were out for their own good. Survival of the fittest, that kind of shit. They didn’t care if the brawlers here almost died or got fatally injured. They wanted a show.

They were selfish fucks.

Bruce hadn’t even been paying attention to the show the first time they had met. And once he had, he felt compelled to stop Jason from almost killing Jackson.

Jason, for the last two weeks, had been going over their previous two meetings. Had been going over every little tick that he had memory of. And it just made him more and more obsessed with the man.

Maybe, he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe, Bruce was just like any selfish fuck out there, but hid it well.

And yet…

 

“Jason,” piped up Cooper from behind him. “It’s your turn, dude.”

Jason glanced at the blond messenger ( _traitor_ ) and nodded. Cracking his knuckles and tilting his head side to side, he stretched. Then he walked into the ring. The audience gave way for him to enter before closing off his entrance and watching with bated breaths.

Johnny stood in front of him, fists raised, eyes alert, but Jason’s eyes switched to the man standing four to five feet behind him.

Their eyes connected and Bruce inclined his head in greeting, a cautious yet unreadable look on his face. Jason grinned.

“This one’s for you!” He shouted at Bruce, one arm up, excitement whirring his nerves. Every other member of the audience’s attention wavered from the ring and went to where Bruce stood. Jason snickered and looked back to Johnny, assuming a fighting stance with one foot up and his fists raised in front of him.

“You ready for me, Donkey?” asked Jason to his opponent.

Johnny’s face had seemed semi-calm before his loathed nickname was called out. Now, it took a more seething edge. Which was what Jason needed.

If his own opponent’s head wasn’t in the game, Jason found it hard to take the match seriously too and he had to take it seriously to keep fighting at his very best. After all, like Bruce had pointed out, Jason’s biggest attribute was his ‘spitting fury’.

He needed his emotions churning underneath his stomach for him to have any hopes of winning a match and that was basically all that mattered.

So they started. With Jason pushing and shoving, barreling and provoking and parrying while Johnny got madder and madder. Then one reckless punch that almost knocked him down was grabbed around the wrist and an elbow got twisted.

“Ah!” groaned Johnny as Jason pulled his elbow back over again. When enough pain was delivered to his opponent, Jason kicked him so Johnny dropped on his knees. It didn't take much time for Johnny to recover and come after Jason, with dogged determination.  Jason dodged, feinted left and shot his fist from the right and smashed in Johnny’s pointy little nose. A bellow of pain and irritation answered him at that.

One more time, Johnny tried to get the upper hand but Jason warded him off easy enough. He kept nimble on his feet, thrusting here and there and evading hits that could have done him fatal harm if they landed. Once Johnny was sufficiently weakened, he grabbed the man’s shoulder and pushed him down. With force, he kneed the man’s stomach and as a loud, garbled groan gusted out of Johnny, he released his opponent. 

“Do you give?” He asked, not as out of breath as he was used to.

Johnny lay on his back, clutching his stomach, squinting his eyes shut, looking quite defeated. “Yes, yes, you win.”

Jason raised his arm to announce the win and the crowd cheered or booed, depending on who bet on whom, really.

Then, he glanced at where Bruce stood and smiled. Bruce returned his smile by turning around and walking away.

Jason frowned, puzzled, but the crowd swallowed Bruce's broad shoulders from view before he could follow him out.

 

* * *

 

Bruce was smoking in the cold air outside Gold Rust when Jason found him. He was looking out into the street, his profile indicating contemplation in progress.

Jason felt like he would be interrupting if he said a word but Bruce wouldn’t be out here if he wasn’t waiting for Jason to show up, would he?

“So what was that about?” He asked without any further ado.

Bruce swiped a look Jason’s way and only blinked. “What?” He asked.

“You-- walking away. When I was clearly giving you the green signal.” Jason explained.

Bruce’s brow rose quite a height at that. “Green signal,” He echoed. “Huh. So that’s what that was?”

“Yes,” Jason thought about it and hesitated. Wasn’t it? “I was intending it that way so...” He hadn’t flirted with many people he was actually seriously interested in so maybe, he went about it in a weird way. “So…” He repeated, not sure what to say now and scuffed his sneakers over the rough pavement.

When he looked up, he caught Bruce smiling down at the ground. Wow. Did he find the awkwardness of Jason's behavior cute? Of course, he did. The great big sap.

“So,” Bruce asked, the curve of his lips widening at the corners. “You’re taking it all back then? The whole ‘we shouldn’t do this again’ bit.”

Jason grimaced. “Yes,” He answered. The mortifying bit, he wasn’t sure he could take back.

“Did your boss give you permission for that?”

Jason blinked and stared. Where did that accusation even come from?

“I’m not a puppet of his,” He retorted, stung. A tinge of shame swept across his cheeks. “I...being with you is my choice.” He glared as he asserted that. There were so many things that were Robert Grant’s choice in Jason’s life. He always felt like he was entangled in a durable, spiraling web, but this thing in particular-- while it may have required Grant’s grudging acceptance-- had been Jason’s choice. And nobody could take that away from him.

Just the thought that Bruce could even think that... that the man was perceptive enough to deduce it in one look-- made Jason feel inadequate and wrong somehow.

It made his heart ache to think of it. With eyelashes fluttering, eyes blurred by hurt, he said: “But if _you've_ changed your mind about this then that's that. It has nothing to do with me being a puppet or not.”

Bruce was silent. Like a grotesque gargoyle, he stared and judged and _weighed_ Jason’s words against all the evidence that must be piled behind him.

“You fought differently today,” Bruce said casually, startling Jason by the non-sequitur. “It-- It almost felt like you were using your brain.”

Jason blinked and then narrowed his eyes.“Are you insulting me or praising me?”

Bruce shook his head, letting out a deep, rumbling laugh. “I just-- I was surprised, that's all. I thought you were more instinctual but you're fast on your feet. And watching you, I've realized you're more intuitive than anything else."

When Jason blinked, his lips angled upward. “You can think, know without a doubt and strike, with cold calculation. Yet you can fight aggressively as well, be all fire and no give.” He looked at Jason with awe-filled eyes. “It's… truly confounding.”

Jason was a little confounded himself. He had thought he was fighting just like normal, with anger as his crutch, but to hear Bruce tell it, he was fighting like a different man tonight.

What had changed?

And then he recognized the change for what it was-- staring at him right in the face with a most perplexed expression.

Jason gave out a laugh. “Oh, well, I can explain that. Easily.” His eyes sparkled with mirth as they grazed Bruce’s. “I… seem to have lost my anger these days.”

From the look on him, Bruce didn't get it.

So Jason tried to expound on it: “Um. I think-- I think meeting you had a part in that.” Bruce blinked, caught off-guard. “You and some other things. But mostly you.”

He got out that last part with some difficulty through a sore, achy throat. His chest-- it weighed awkwardly in his rib cage, in the place where his heart tripped and jumped in fear.

 _Mostly_ _you._

What he didn't say was: _Because you're all_ _I think_ _of these days. And it sheds away the anger. The frustration and the powerlessness. It makes me feel better._

Bruce tilted his head in Jason’s peripheral and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a flip. A teasing, lovely little smile curling full, chapped lips. “That's nice to know,” whispered Bruce in his ear and _that_ was the last thing that needed to happen.

Jason shuddered, his spine sparking, his nerves afire.

“Oh, you need to stop that!” He hissed at Bruce, who knew exactly what he was doing and smiled unapologetically anyway. Jason was startled by the smile and enchanted as well.

He just knew that he would be haunted by memories of it in his dreams. He would think: _I made him smile!_

And never be able to sleep.

Did love happen in a matter of two days?

Jason shut off that thought when he grabbed Bruce’s collar and pulled him into a forceful kiss.

Canting his head into the lip-lock, Bruce grabbed him back and moved in a distinctly welcoming even encouraging fashion.

Hands gripped, mouths crashed and burned, hips rolled closer, and moans filled the empty, silent street.

Want was a mark upon Jason’s heated skin. It was a tattoo that itched and forewarned of an implosion that could leave him in tatters.

They let up, breathing hard, and Jason found his tongue moving before his mind could catch up.

“We need to move,”

Bruce only looked back at him, perturbed. “Move where?”

“Somewhere private, Bruce.” He clutched the billionaire’s wrist and yanked at it impatiently. “Come on. Let's go.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed, not exactly letting Jason’s pull force him to walk. “But where?”

Jason gave him an exasperated look. "We'll find some place, but we need to move.” He glanced around. “This just isn't the right place."

He could feel the spidery impression of Grant's eyes like they were dug into his soul. It made him feel dirty and uncomfortable.

He didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity of his perverted boss when Bruce and Jason… did it. It just made him shudder in horror that Grant could be watching this from somewhere.

Jason needed privacy.

So he pulled on Bruce’s wrist once again and this time, there was a give.


	4. sees me, knows me, comforts me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There's always a good reason,”

_Bruce_

 He noticed Jason’s apprehension on their way. How could he not? Jason’s gaze went shifty and his attitude slowly became more and more closed-off. Some far-off thought had brushed his mind and it continued to occupy, even when they were inside Jason’s apartment.

The place itself, Bruce took some time to check out as he waited for Jason to come back to himself. It had wooden floors with speckled dust gathering in the corners. Three small rooms were intermeshed together. A rickety, faded red couch stood in the middle. There was a rug and coffee table in front of it and a TV. There the living room began and a few feet by, it ended into the kitchen.

The ivory-colored countertop and cabinets lined one corner of a narrow kitchen room. Mugs and a few assortment of dishes were set beside the metal sink. Then one door half-way open to the left wall of the kitchen revealed a glimpse of a queen bed and messy clothes lying in disarray on the floor.

It didn’t look like a place that invited guests over a lot. It was just a place to eat, sleep and relax. Not to hang out.

If it were, it would look more lived in, but it seemed, much to Bruce’s dismay, that Jason lived most of his time in Gold Rust.

That couldn’t be very good for the boy.

When Bruce looked back at Jason, the boy was approaching him with hands half-raised to touch, but his eyes were still very much absent. Bruce let the boy’s hands rest on his chest and wondered how he was going to deal with this. They couldn’t exactly have sex like this. With Jason preoccupied on some deep, dark memory that was killing his soul right inside and with Bruce confused and wary of this new development in their relationship.

Jason too readily accepted this thing between the two of them when a few days ago, he had been against it.

And what about Bruce? Bruce, who hadn’t meant to start this in the first place. Bruce, who had some work he had to take care of and had only meant to check Jason’s match out today. He hadn’t meant for this to get so far.

But like Bruce was becoming was Jason's thing, the boy had been rapid-fire with his advances. So rapid-fire that Bruce had lost perspective and fallen off his solid, familiar path onto a cracked, disorienting pavement. He had basically brought this on himself with his utter fascination on the angry boy with the heated stare and fiery body.

Now, he couldn’t seem to make himself leave. Not with Jason looking so lost and desperate for a way out of his own mind, his own body.

Bruce had never pushed off his nightly activities for anyone or anything. _It_ _just_ _wasn’t done._

With Jason’s head angling in for a kiss while his eyes remained empty, Bruce knew. He knew what he was willing to do.

Bruce let his head lean into the kiss and as their lips met, he grabbed Jason around his arm and spun them around until Jason’s back was on the wall. The thudding noise of their bodies meeting the wall woke Jason. He blinked, his eyelashes fluttering against Bruce’s forehead. But Bruce continued still, deepening their kiss, dragging his tongue inside Jason’s open mouth and pressing forward with his thigh inching between Jason's legs. His grip became harsher on Jason’s arms, digging painfully.

When Jason let out a protesting noise, he bit Jason’s bottom lip and let his hands rest on the back of Jason’s bare skin. Then, remembering a certain memory, he scratched a white line on either side of Jason’s back. There, his hands stopped traversing and burrowed in with blunt, short nails.

Jason’s breath hitched and his exhales became a pant in no time. Their slanted mouths shifted and withdrew and revisited again with new vigor. 

Pain invited. Pain dined. Pain flashed in the back of Bruce’s eyes as Jason’s arms locked around him and dug into the nape of his neck. Then, desperate hands flew and landed on his head, forcing it back. But as if unsatisfied, Jason made a noise and hauled him forward again into his mouth again. Yanking at his hair and rationale ripping at the seams, Jason bit at Bruce's lips and released it only to emit a pain-inducing whimper that tore at Bruce’s black-and-white plan.

Wake Jason up. That was the ultimate goal. The only goal.

In his brain, there had been a blank paper where Bruce had wrote up the plan, thinking of all the contingencies, all the reasons for and all the reasons against. He did that sometimes. Make plans in his head, in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, it was a matter of life and death. So following it from step one to the last step required vigilance, needed determination and emotionless resolve. It was how he survived.

Talking wouldn’t have been any help. He had known from the beginning. It would have only made Jason more self-conscious of his problem blaring like a siren, like a mark on his forehead. So Bruce had talked with his body.

 _Wake up_. He had said with the force of his nails on Jason’s skin.

 _Wake up_. He had insisted with the intensifying kisses. With his tongue in Jason’s mouth. He had shouted: _WAKE UP._

And it had worked. It had. So the next step was to back away, to let Jason exhale a sigh and pull himself together. To think through the whole thing and know that he was okay. That Bruce wasn’t taking advantage of him in a vulnerable moment, but that heart-wrenching, feeble whimper was like shrapnel had stabbed at his insides.

It throbbed in his chest as not long after, another whimper accompanied the first one but this one blocked, locked up somewhere in the throat.

 _The need to_ _be filled_. It was apparent in the shaky drag of fingers on Bruce’s jacket’s lapel. It was a revelation on the wet tears that brushed against Bruce’s brow and that black-and-white paper in his head? Shredded itself into pieces, discarded somewhere in Bruce’s heart, in a dark, crimson cavern where no thought resided.

Yet from that cavern rose his own desire, overlapping with Jason’s, as they connected like they were one.

Electricity tied a noose around his throat. His hands grabbed at the wall beside Jason’s head and grasped at it. Grasped for his own will in all this, but it was hard.

So _hard_.

“Jason,” he gritted out with his pulse racing and thudding in his ears like the drumbeats in a rock concert.

Jason wasn't listening. Wasn't even trying to. With renewed force, he jerked at Bruce’s jacket and pulled away to demand: “Take this off,”

“Jason, wait,” Bruce tried to say-- sense was a difficult concept to wrap around his mind at the moment.

“What?” Jason arched a brow. A sardonic smirk molded his face. “It's fair game, don't you think? What with me being half-naked anyway. Don't I deserve a little looksey too?”

Bruce stared. _Right. A little "looksey_ " _._ That'd be all it was gonna end up being, right?

This situation was escalating out of Bruce’s control and he didn't even know if he wanted to control it.

“I think--” Bruce got out of his dry, parched throat. “--I think we should st--”

“Oh, shut up!” Jason said with a toothy grin, shoving at him. Playful. Uncaring. Jubilant. With watery eyes, he tried to appear like-- like that.

It was wrong.

It was all wrong.

Bruce grabbed at Jason’s wrist and stopped the pushing (of bad thoughts), the shoving (of worse feelings), and the ripping (of an already broken heart).

He had been here before.

He swallowed back all the measly explanations and settled for a meager: “It's okay,”

Jason blinked fast. His grey-blue eyes lowered and thunder crackled underneath those chip-like nebulas. A smile twisted into a grimace. A bitter frown enveloped his forced smile. It was like looking at a shattered mirror, with shards of it showing different reflections. In one shard, the dying pretense of happiness. In another shard, fury and resentment growing. In another shard, a broken boy just barely keeping together his grief.

What was Bruce to do about it except say: “It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.” over and over again.

With his one hand on Jason’s shoulder, he waited for the shouting or for the breaking down. He almost wished it was the anger he had to face, but Jason trusted him.

For whatever reason, he did. Or else he wouldn't...

Jason’s lips wobbled and his eyes were shards now too. Tears spilled out of his eyes and it was such a strike against Bruce's system. That he froze and just stared for a minute straight.

Jason sobbed, his mouth open in a mournful lament, his forehead a canvas of furrows, and his eyes seeking-- pleading-- a way out. His shoulders shook. His arms-- that had been so animated a moment ago-- stayed stuck at his side.

It was when Jason bowed his head for a second before looking up at Bruce with shiny, helpless blue eyes that Bruce was able to move from his statuesque position.

 _I am inept at situations like these,_ He thought as he hugged Jason close, arms wrapped around the boy’s quivering arms. _I don't do comforting. Alfred will rush to tell you. He will tell you: ‘Master Bruce is incapable of dealing with grief. Partly because he never dealt with his own.’ And he will be right. Because right now,_ _I feel_ _useless._

 _I'm useless._ He thought as he squeezed his eyes shut, settling his head on Jason’s shoulder as the boy cried out his stuttering rhythm of sorrow.

It hurt. Hearing it.

It angered him.

Who did this? It had to be someone. Who was it? Who hurt Jason like this?

A face flashed before his eyes.

And somehow, Bruce knew exactly who was to blame.

* * *

_  
Jason_

He woke with a horrible realization just waiting to ping at his brain like an obnoxious alarm.

That… didn't really happen, right?

It had to have been a dream.

He wouldn't have tried to hook up with Bruce Wayne and then cry in front of him because-- because what?

Because he missed his mother?

It had been three weeks since he'd last seen her and she hadn't looked good. Her complexion had been all grey and dull. She was losing weight too. Her hands had been shaking when he'd talked to her last. Her eyes had stayed on the table where their dinner was being served by Grant’s servants and when Jason had hesitantly asked if she was okay, she had only looked at him with this empty gaze and Grant had interrupted by saying:

“How's the meatloaf? I had Gary try this famous recipe from that reality cooking TV show by Gordon Ramsey. I think that’s his name. Anyway, I hope it's to your liking, honey. And you, Jason.”

Because that's how it happened. His meetings with his own mother. Under the watchful eye of Grant, who sat across from them and made silly, little remarks about trivial things, acting like everything was great. Normal, even.

Jason wanted to keep an eye on her. See to it that she was taking care of herself because no-one in that damn penthouse would.

If Jason could, he would have leaped through the security-tight walls of that beautiful, huge prison and try to get her out of there, but he was only one man (an amateur at best) and Grant had hired a whole plethora of guards sans scary dogs.

And there were those stupid security cameras.

Just-- just one day, he wanted to disable those swiveling machines with their laser-focused lenses zooming and whirring at him suspiciously all the time.

It was possible Grant had put his face on a black-list. It was possible that there would be extra caution taken when it came to him because of course, he would want to get to her. She was his mother, after all and he made no secret he loathed Grant having such control over her. 

Sometimes, Jason closed his eyes and dreamed he had a different mother. A little kinder around the eyes. A little easy with the smiles. A little tolerating of his bullshit. A little fonder.

Just a little bit better. Maybe, that would make it easier to make the decision one day. Maybe, that would make him stop repeating: "Still need to get stronger. I can't protect her like this." and just _do it_.

In his dreams, she smiled at Jason with white, straight teeth. When he got into a fight with someone, she wouldn't say: ' _Did you get a good one on him or are you the only asshole coming out of this bloody and broken_?' When he'd get an injury, she would say: ' _Oh honey, let me make that better for you_ ,' Not: “ _Serves you right. Watch where you go next time,_ ”

Jason remembered all too keenly that one time when the eight-year-old him had taken a nasty fall down a slippery slope. He'd skinned his knee and his rough palms peeled in a horrible way. His head had hurt and there'd been blood coming out of his forehead.

He had been shaking. It had been shock, he now knew. It hadn't been fatal or life-threatening, what happened to him, but at that time, he couldn't stop trembling. Couldn't look at the blood without tearing up at the sight. Couldn't handle himself. It had hurt. _So much_. And he had _desperately_ needed his mother. Needed her to comfort him.

He had walked home like that. Terrified. Needing warmth. Needing someone to look at his wounds and say: ' _Oh, Jason, what happened?_ '

He needed someone to look at him with worry and care in their eyes and hold him in a long, heart-warming hug. He wanted someone to tell him that ' _It's gonna be okay, Jason. It's all gonna be okay, baby,_ ' while he sobbed in their arms as they caressed his hair.

He just needed that. Was it too much to ask?

His mother had barely spared him a single look when he'd shown up in front of her. She had been in the kitchen. Holding her head. Her blond hair had been a tangled mess and she had been eyeing a new bottle of gin on the countertop with greedy, disturbed eyes.

That was his mom. Through and through. Remote. Despondent. Uncaring.

“Mom,” he had tried to get out of what had seemed like a scorched out throat. It felt like a rock was stuck down his windpipe and it refused to leave him alone. 

She had only glanced at him but from that, Jason knew. He knew all his sniffling and crying wouldn't do a damn good for this woman because she couldn't seem to _see_ him at all. In her gaze, there had been no Jason but a terrible disquiet, a harsh coldness.

A numbness.

So he'd pulled himself together. Pulled his big boy pants on and held all the shattered pieces of his soul.

But when he had walked into his room and slammed the door behind him, he had let all those pieces come crashing to the ground.

With hitched breaths, eyes squeezed shut and arms gathered around himself as he dropped to his knees, he cried a silent lament into the air. Quietly so no-one but him could know. Keenly so she couldn't hear because he also, recalled another memory of his mother from not so long ago. This one was so vivid that he remembered it like it was a grounded, universal rule of earth.

He'd been sniffling, sobbing nonsensically, trying to draw her attention. No, begging for her attention. Begging for some sign of care from his mother but she had been too busy trying to ignore him and when she couldn't ignore him anymore, she had raged at him. He'd been what? Probably five or six years old? Yeah, he remembered that moment because ever since then--

 _"OH GOD, JASON, SHUT UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH,"_  She had screeched at him with a voice so unnaturally loud and with a tone so remarkably harrowing that it had felt cold all over his body.  _"Or else..._ " With one index finger pointing at him threateningly, she had trailed off but the piercing glare she'd given him was enough to freeze him where he was.

He remembered that even when he was tearing apart inside. He kept that in mind and squeezed his eyes shut in the dark, praying that even if he was crushing the whispering agony way down his throat, that somewhere out there, he could be heard.

“Jason,” came a voice beside him, startling him right out of his hazy recollections. “Are you alright?”

He looked next to him and found that Bruce Wayne was reclining his back against the headrest of Jason’s bed. He was in a wrinkled buttoned-down shirt that was folded up to the elbows and with rumpled hair, dark circles under his red-tinged eyes and a grey-black stubble growing around his jawline, he turned to regard Jason's eyes like he knew something. Like he could _see_ something deep within Jason that nobody even _tried_ to see.

If Jason didn't know any better, he would guess that Bruce looked like a man who'd stayed the night and that couldn't happen, right? Jason knew better. He had had an absolute shit-storm type of meltdown in front of Bruce last night.

Bruce, who he barely knew.

Bruce, who had seemed like an attractive enough and yes, nice enough guy to sleep around with.

Bruce, who was the owner or CEO or some kind of important guy in charge of Wayne Incorporation, and who had a whole big mansion and everything and who clearly had better things to do with his time than waiting the whole night to see if Jason-- what?-- if Jason came out of it alright?

This wasn't happening.

He refused to believe it.

“You're not here,” he growled out, except it came out as a weak, pathetic croak. He winced at the ache in his throat. It seemed he had cried like a bitch-baby last night. “Why the fuck are you here?”

He wanted to sound infuriated and demanding and bold and so done with last night’s big hiccup, but the croak persisted, like a bad rash.

Nobody got intimidated by a croak.

Or a rash!

(Not like Bruce was the kinda guy who got intimidated)

(He actually seemed really intense)

(Another attractive feature about him that Jason was just now starting to appreciate)

( _God but he needed to focus_ )

Bruce just studied him. Perhaps, clinically. The jut of his chin definitely seemed to convey indifference or at least, blank regard. Except-- except-- _except in his eyes swirled worry_. A warm, honey-filled emotion that attempted to melt any icy demeanor Jason may have mustered up outwardly.

 _God_ but how could he focus like this? Bruce’s eyes were unreal. Jason had thought they looked like ice or shards of a broken mirror last night, but-- but today, in the light of the sun and the shadows it bore, they were _so clarifying_.

An azure color. Bright. Inviting. Twinkling at him.

“Are you feeling better now?” Bruce asked. The concern transferred from his eyes and etched itself onto his forehead and onto the muscles around his mouth. Like threads, folded onto his sun-dappled skin as if they were permanent marks.

They weren't.

They shouldn't be.

This shouldn't be any of Bruce Wayne’s concern.

“I'm sorry,” Jason hastened to say, feeling off-center and speechless except he had to apologize because what kind of dick didn't after what he did last night? “I shouldn't have-- I shouldn't have--” _Shouldn't have what? Shouldn't have cried my heart out like that? Shouldn't have taken sweet, much-needed comfort in your arms_? What was he trying to say here? “I shouldn't have freaked out like that.” No, that wasn't it. “I'm sorry you had to see that.” Yeah, that sounded almost right, but not quite.

Bruce tipped his head sideways, more furrows grasping at his skin. “Jason,” He wanted to say something but Jason wasn't done.

He chuckled, dry wit catching up to him. “I'm sorry I'm so fucked up.” With one hand, he ruffled his hair. A sloppy grin widened his lips, cheapening the moment. This sweet, sun-lit morning. He was ruining it. “I'm sorry I turned our simple one-night stand into something this fucking complicated.”

“ _Jason_ ,”

When he looked at Bruce next, a storm seemed to have twisted his whole face and now, Jason was face-to-face with thunder; twitching jaw, glaring eyes, frowning lips and flaring nostrils.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bruce asserted. “You needed to cry and I was there. And I'm glad that I was.” When Jason blinked, Bruce leaned closer to him. His eyes were an intense creamy velvet blue from this distance. “Do you understand, Jason? I'm glad that I was there for you when you needed to let it out. When you needed someone to hold you while you dealt with whatever it was you were dealing with.”

Jason exhaled a shaky laugh but Bruce interrupted him with one look. One warning look.

“Pain, Jason,” said Bruce, his eyes transforming back to the brittle ice of last night. “It demands to be felt. Those who ignore it, who bury it-- they're not dealing with it right. I didn't deal with it right. So if anyone here should apologize for being fucked up, it's me.”

Jason let out a snort despite himself. “Well. You're not the one who cried last night for no good reason.”

“There's always a good reason,” Bruce said, something shifting in his gaze like he was remembering. “When people cry, there's always a very good reason. Maybe, they feel really helpless or really sad or really angry or hysterically happy. But people cry because-- because they need to.

"Do you understand?"

Jason could only nod. Mute. Awestruck. His attraction for Bruce resonating loudly around his eardrums.

“Good,” Bruce said, disentangling the blanket from around him and starting to get up. “I think I’ve taken more than enough time of yours. So I’ll take my leave. Is that okay?”

Jason blinked. “Uh-- yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” He was dazzled, he knew and this abrupt attempt at departure from Bruce reeked of rejection somehow. A different type of rejection. A rejection of romantic or sexy times. What the fuck was up with that? “I’m pretty sure your time is more important than mine, anyway.”

Bruce shrugged on his suit jacket that was creased everywhere. It gave Bruce a rakish look, which Jason loved, of course.

“Yes, well, I didn’t have your permission to stay the night but I did anyway,” Bruce said.

“Are you kidding me?” Jason burst out. Bruce turned to give him an assessing look. “I mean. I wanted you to. You know that, right? You were doing me the favor. I was a total fucking mess and any other person would have run in the other direction after that. So.” He swallowed. “I’m thankful.”

Bruce gave him a trace of a smile. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
